I walked into the loft. Molly was screaming, "Dad, no! No! Stop! Stop!" The second stop came out as a pleading whine. Three beats long. Craig loomed large over Molly and Justin. He had Justin by the arm, his fingers digging so hard into Justin's already bruised skin that Justin was grimacing. Justin was standing in front of Molly, his free arm reaching back behind him protectively. The pitch of Molly's voice rose with her rising panic. "I'll go back with you. Okay? Just stop hurting him!" But Craig grabbed Justin's arm tighter, causing Justin to wince and cry out. I moved to close the distance between Justin and me. Too slow. I heard a sickening crack and a wordless scream, and blood started flowing. I jumped to grab Craig, who was staring at Justin with wide eyes, his mouth open slightly (as though horrified at what he'd done). Again too slow. Justin beat me to it. Blinking and cursing ("Fuck!"), blood streaming down his face and neck, Justin managed to hit Craig in the windpipe. One quick fluid movement, from a slight bending to a standing position, a jab, and Craig was hunched over, his hands at his throat, coughing. It was cold, calculating, rational. I saw none of the fire, the emotion I had come to expect from Justin.

Not when he pulled Molly against him, letting out a whispered, "Sorry, Mollusk" like a breath he'd been holding.

Not when, Molly still in his arms, his eyes, empty of everything, flickered up to mine. He breathed in. A droplet of blood that had reached his chin fell onto Molly's pink sweatshirt, blooming into a starburst. He breathed out. Craig coughed and wheezed. And still nothing registered. He could have been looking at a wall.

Not when I called the police. "… my partner's been assaulted …" His face was completely expressionless … no hint of a smile at my calling him my partner (even in the darkest of times, Justin smiled when I publicly claimed him … like Pavlov's dogs drooling at the sound of a bell, the smile was automatic) … no flash of anger at my describing him as having been assaulted … like he hadn't defended himself … like he needed protecting (probably an even touchier subject since the kidnapping).

Not when I gently tilted his head up and carefully wiped the blood off of his face. We were two, maybe three, inches from each other, but it could have been miles. His gaze was focused on a point slightly above and to the right of my left shoulder.

Not when I, my task completed, bent down, pressed my forehead against Justin's, and ran the fingers of my left hand through his hair. He didn't move. He didn't make a sound. That (the latter) was the only indication that Justin, my Angel, was still in there. He wasn't breathing. I clenched my jaw and swallowed hard. A skulking shiver suddenly emerged and tore through me, like a jolt of electricity. Not for the first time, I was cognizant (and, this time, unashamed) of my desperate need … to be able to take Justin's breath away. A full minute later, I pulled back. Justin let his eyes flutter open (when had he closed them) and inhaled deeply. Restarting. But, just as quickly, shutting down again. The glimmer of light in his eyes dimming.

Not when the cops were taking Molly's statement.

"My dad grabbed Justin. Hard. I told him to stop. I said I'd go with him. There was no reason for my dad to hit Justin. But he did it anyway. He punched him in the face. He broke his nose. It was my fault. Justin didn't do anything wrong. I was the one who decided to come here. I called the cab. He hit Justin a couple years ago, too. I saw it from my bedroom window. My dad never did this stuff before Justin told him that he was gay. That means this is a hate crime, right? We learned about that in school."

Justin stood behind her, arms crossed, his mouth an unbroken line, and blinked. He could have been waiting with her for the bus for all his face and eyes revealed. Except that he didn't even look bored.

Not when they were carting Craig away.

"I don't want my daughter staying here, not even for one night! Call child protective services. Put her in the system. Anyone's better than these faggots!"

Justin breathed in.

Justin breathed out.

Justin had been so happy and relieved when I found him, so full of love for me. And I still saw that deep love … but less. In rare flashes and glimpses. Justin was shutting down bit by bit, and I felt powerless to stop it. A year ago, two years ago, I would have been glad. I would have said, finally, he's toughening up. Finally, he's protecting himself. But … I didn't want Justin to become me. Maybe once upon a time. Not now. What I'd said during our date months ago was never truer. I needed Justin whole and healthy. Whole, healthy, happy, and by my side. He was none of those things. He was with me, sure, but he wasn't really with me, a distinction I would have been loath to make even a year ago. Justin wasn't talking and he wasn't feeling, so we weren't really connecting. We'd passed the last couple of days mostly in silence. So ironic. Not so long ago, I would have been glad for the reprieve. Touch was all I needed. All I wanted. The only way I could say what I felt. But now … something was different about the silence. Justin had closed parts of himself off even to me.

TBC… (soon. I wanted this part to be longer, but I'm in a weird mood and writing very, very slow)